


The Great Pheasant

by notwisely



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwisely/pseuds/notwisely
Summary: "Theage oldtradition of the Hallowe'en Pheasant—you know, thetraditionof not going trick-or-treating on Hallowe'en night because you're following thetrail of sweetsthePheasanthas left in your house instead."





	The Great Pheasant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_M](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/gifts).



"Gooooood morning, Skip!" Martin quickly chugs the rest of his coffee in an effort to jump-start his system and brace for what's to come. The cockpit door swings open and he's greeted with a truly _improbable_  quantity of feathers as Arthur sticks his head into the front of the plane. "Happy happy Halloween! Greetings and goodwill from the Great Pheasant!"

"The _what_?" Martin leans back a little, trying his best to avoid a mouthful of costume store fluff. Arthur is wearing what can best be described as a sleeved cape, covered in red, orange, and yellow feathers, over the top of his steward uniform. He also has several large feathers tucked into the pocket of his vest.

"The Great Pheasant! Who brings good luck and sweets to those brave enough to follow his trail!" Arthur gestures broadly and Martin leans back further in his chair.

"The great– Arthur, that's not a real–"

" _Hello_ Martin, happy Hallowe'en and _greetings_ from the _Great Pheasant_  to you." Carolyn's voice cuts through Martin's half-finished thought. She clears her throat pointedly while narrowing her eyes meaningfully at Martin.

"–not a really, um, common tradition that _we_  have _—_ where I'm from _—_ down in Wokingham _—_ of course." Martin finishes hurriedly.

"Aw, Skip, you mean you've just been trick-or-treating with all the kids every year?" Arthur looks deeply mournful. "I mean, trick-or-treating's brilliant, of course, but you just _have_ to try the Pheasant hunt. Don't worry, we'll set you to rights this year!"

"I, um, what?" Martin manages, his eyes flicking back and forth between Carolyn's increasingly grim expression and Arthur's indefatigable grin.

"The Pheasant hunt! Once you turn fourteen, you're old enough for the Pheasant hunt and you don't have to go out to trick-or-treat for your Halloween goodies! The Great Pheasant hides a trail of sweets in your house, and if you're very clever and observant you can follow it to his nest, which is full of the most delicious food you can imagine." Arthur pauses, reverently. "Like _Jaffa cakes_."

"I... see." Martin says.

"Good morning, Martin, Carolyn, feather duster slowly consuming our hapless steward." Douglas edges past Arthur, settling into the co-pilot's seat and raising an eyebrow inquisitively at the three of them. "If I'd known it was Wear-A-Household-Appliance-To-Work day I'd have brought a mop."

"Douglas!" Martin smiles in the way that means he thinks he's about to be extremely clever, and Douglas watches Carolyn suppress a wince, "We were just talking with Arthur about the _age old_  tradition of the Hallowe'en Pheasant—you know, the _tradition_  of not going trick-or-treating on Hallowe'en night because you're following the  _trail of sweets_  the _Pheasant_  has left in your house instead."

"Please stop doing that with your eyebrows," Douglas says, "think of the children."

Carolyn sighs deeply. "Arthur, come help me fetch the tea from the galley."

"I sense Carolyn's fowl disposition at play here." Douglas spins his chair back to face the front, "Though it seems to me there must be ways to dissuade Arthur from trick-or-treating that _don't_ involve spending an evening secreting sticky packages throughout your place of residence."

"Dissuade Arthur? From a holiday centered around extravagant costumes, sweets, and enthusiastic shouting?" Martin says dubiously.

"You have a point." Douglas concedes, shuffling the load sheet underneath the flight plan. "Well, are you ready for Bucharest? And on Hallowe'en, no less—bit on the nose, isn't it?"

"What's wrong with Bucharest?" Martin asks absently, running through his pre-pre-flight mental checklist. Ignition key, yes. Weather forecast, yes. Hat, yes.

"Dracula's castle? I vant to suck your blood?" Douglas curls his fingers into fangs and smirks at Martin.

"What are you talking about? Dracula's castle is in Transylvania, everyone knows  _that_." Martin says indignantly. 

" _Historic_ Transylvania, also known as," Douglas pauses for effect, " _modern_ Romania. You know, they say it's odd that so many different cultures have developed their own version of the vampire archetype, completely independently. One might even say, it's positively _uncanny_."

"Oh, stop it, Douglas," Martin says, beginning to look a little worried at the corners of his eyes, "you're not going to trick me into believing some horror story."

"Mm, well I'm sure you'll enjoy our evening descent into the traditional home of blood-suckers and the undead. Happen to pack any garlic for the trip? Silver cross? You never know what might come in handy. If you have a pocket mirror handy, you can check their reflection, of course, though often by the time you realize a vampire is looking at you it's too late—" Two knocks at the door cut him off just as Douglas is picking up steam.

"Tea, chaps?" Arthur pokes his head back into the cockpit, this time carrying two cups of tea on a tray. "One for you, Skip, and one for you, Douglas." He sets each cup down and turns towards the door, but hesitates for a moment before turning back to look at Douglas. "Um, Douglas."

"Yes, Arthur? Surely it can't be time for the Great Pheasant to lay it's sugary trail yet."

"No, no, it's just—" Arthur pauses again, then, very gently and with the air of one delivering truly unfortunate news, says, "You know that vampires aren't real, right?"


End file.
